


Rose

by buffering



Category: Original Work
Genre: Complete, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffering/pseuds/buffering
Summary: Prompt: Soulmates, whatever you draw or do to your skin appears on your soulmates' and vice versa. The marks can't be removed unless they're removed from the original person's skin.





	Rose

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting on here and I'm already nervous. Aaaah.
> 
> Anyways, I doubt anyone's gonna read this but if you do, I hope you enjoy! Sorry the summary isn't exactly the best, so hopefully the story's just a little bit better. Also, if anyone is reading this, please leave me some feedback or criticism. I wanna get better at writing, and I can't exactly do that by myself. One last thing: if the format's messed up, blame it on this being my first time posting on here. I don't know how things work on here, so just give me a sec?
> 
> Thank you!

I’m at work when my left palm is suddenly covered in doodles. It’s weird to see them suddenly appear from nowhere, even though I know my soulmate holds the pen wherever they are. 

Huh. My soulmate.

I never thought I’d get one, never really imagined myself with one. Sure, my parents wanted me to have one so I wouldn’t be ‘lonely’, or whatever. They even went so far as to test me for Emptiness, but I couldn’t care less if I was meant to be Empty. Some people just aren’t meant to have a soulmate, and some are. That’s just how things are. 

Small letters appear next, written in columns, and then they’re smeared slightly, as if trying to- I can’t help the small smile that flickers across my face. Oh, wow. They’re a student, probably in high school. Kids used to always help each other on tests, and most of the teachers were either too oblivious to notice or just didn’t care enough to try and stop the ring of cheating. 

This becomes a weekly thing, with faded ink being covered by fresh ink, and by then everyone at work wants to see if there’s new drawings on my hand. My coworkers crowd me everyday, asking about the doodles and my soulmate, like a bunch of excited cats or maybe just like proud parents. Sometimes the drawings are coloured in with pen or marker or paint, sometimes they’re simple and stupid like stick figures or random geometric shapes. They’re usually neat and organized, though, and I wonder if the person behind them is an art student. 

I’ve drawn a few things for them to show them that I’m here, but they’re nothing compared to the dizzying patterns they ink across our skin. We haven’t explicitly said anything to the other, just drawn things. I think it’s a rule or something, where you can’t clearly write to the other. Then again, I could be wrong. I haven’t exactly researched into this stuff; I never imagined even having a soulmate.

I’m home when I first notice the lines, angry quick things, stretching across my arms and thighs. I don’t know how to react, don’t know how to try and help, so I cover my arm with butterflies and flowers. After all, you wouldn’t want to kill a butterfly or flowers, right?

It doesn’t stop my soulmate, but it does slow them down. That’s all I could ask for.

People at work glance at my arms covered in ink and cherry red lines, but they don’t stare. They’ve got their own soulmates for the most part, so they know what it’s like.

And then, one day, the drawings just stop. It’s not like my soulmate draws on themselves everyday, but nothing new appears for days upon days. The ink slowly fades away as it disappears, either naturally or from soap I’ll never know; marks can only vanish when they leave the other person’s body. More red lines appear, and even all the things I try to draw can do nothing to stop them. I can’t write encouraging or specific words, because they’ll just be erased by something bigger than us, probably. I’m helpless as I watch my soulmate spiral downwards with more and more cuts scraping into our skin.

I push myself up from bed, squinting at the early sunlight peeking through the blinds. You’d think I’d be used to early mornings by now because of work, but I’m still a college kid at heart even if I did have to drop out. I wipe away the sleep from my eyes, and then I freeze. The words ‘I don’t want to live anymore’ are written on my arm in ominous black ink. My stomach has turned to a heavy sheet of thick ice, heart crystallizing into stone. I grab my phone and call out of work, something about a family emergency or something like that. My mouth is it’s own thing right now.

It seems I was wrong about the whole writing thing. Stupid.

I scramble for a pen from my messy desk, hands shaking. How long has this been on my arm? No, it can’t be too late; if they’d done...something, I would be able to feel it. I’d have the marks to prove it. 

I start to write about anything and everything I know about them. I write about their art, how it makes me smile on rough days regardless of what it actually is. I mention how much I love to watch it make its way across my skin, the thought put into each drawing even if it’s nothing more than a smiley face. I write about how much I know about them from their drawings, how I know they’re right handed and love colours to pop against the traditional pen inks of blue and black. I write about their art style and how it reminds me of certain cartoon shows I try to watch when I come back home at some obscene hour in the night, and do you watch them too? I write about my favourite shows and how I see certain characters in my soulmate, how I see the stories they weave throughout their drawings and how they remind me of stories I’ve seen in movies and shows. I write until my arm is covered in blue ink, so I move on to my legs until they’re covered in blue words. I write until my hands feels detached from my arm, until my eyes see nothing more than blurred blue lines, until my pen is dead and I have to get another. 

Hundreds of minutes must’ve passed, leaking into hours of nothing more than words words words, until I stop writing and wait. I hope and pray to any god that’ll listen to me, pray that my soulmate understands I know what it’s like to be on the wrong end of a blade, that I can feel everything they feel. I hope they know how much I care about them, even if we’ve only ever communicated through doodles on hands and arms. I don’t care just because we’re ‘meant to be’ or something trivial like that, and I’m supposed to care. I don’t care because of the threat of Emptiness looming over my head like a dark stormcloud that seems to be reaching hurricane levels right now.

I don’t want them to only be remembered by fading ink and bright red lines. I don’t want to remember them like that, nothing more than marks on my skin.  
Minutes slog by, until finally black ink appears on my right hand slowly. I watch as each letter shakily forms until ‘Thanks’ is scrawled on my skin. The ice melts away from my stomach as my heart beats again, and I let out a wobbling breath of relief. Tears are gushing down my face, and for a second I can feel what they feel, a ball of painangersadness piercing into my core. I bury my face into my hands and let their pain wash over me. If I can take a piece, a sliver of their hurt, then I will. 

Weeks pass. I go back to work at my minimum wage position. I smile, something big and bright like the moon, as I see watercolour paints stain my fingertips. Pen doodles gracefully mark my skin like intricate tattoos, vines of green ink running down my fingers and blossoming into flowers of red and pink and purple. I feel different but the same, somehow, like I’ve cut my hair but only by a few centimeters. I can feel they’re happy, happier than they’ve been for awhile. 

I go to the grocery store after work, only needing a couple things for the week, when I see them. It feels like a lens has been removed from my eyes, or like a tinted window’s just been shattered and I can see the world for all it is. Everything is new, colours are brighter and more vibrant than they’ve ever been before. 

They have a shock of pink hair, short with the sides shaved. A streak of bright lavender runs through their hair, contrasting with their acorn skin. Spiked combat boots meet tight ripped jeans meet loose tank top that’s hugged by blue and black flannel. Their eyes, green and blue as the sea, meet mine and widen in surprise. 

I slowly walk up to them, heart thudding with anticipation. Soon we stand in front of each other, unable to look away from the other’s eyes. How out of place we must look, two people gazing into the other’s soul in the middle of the cereal aisle. 

“It’s you,” they breath out, eyes sparkling like the ocean during sunrise. A smile breaks out on my face. “It’s me.”

“I’m Rose,” she says. Of course. Of course. She’s Rose. I laugh, a fluttering and light laugh that would’ve sounded ridiculous coming from me in any other situation. 

“I’m Ivy.”

She laughs a little too, blush tinging her cheeks. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

There’s a beat of nervous quiet between us, lemon bubbles of excitement popping like popcorn in the quiet. 

“You wanna grab some coffee?” She lights up like a firefly, even though she’s already bursting with energy and light, like she’s swallowed the Sun. “Yeah, definitely!”

As we walk, I can’t help but notice the wholeness and completion in me, like a fresh baked cake that just got slathered with frosting and sprinkles. It’s something more than that, though, and I can’t help but look over at Rose and smile.


End file.
